


My beloved was weighed down.

by destielpasta



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Hopeful Ending, Kissing, M/M, Only in flashbacks, Past Christophe Giacometti/Victor Nikiforov, Protective Victor Nikiforov, Social Media, concerned Minako, concerned yakov, post- first kiss, post-Episode 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9414737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: In which things aren't always perfect, and the world shows its shitty side in the face of your most perfect happiness.All Victor can do is protect Yuuri.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, I don't usually feel the need to justify why I'm writing a particular story, preferring to let the writing speak for itself, but this is a very personal project and I want to be clear about my intentions. Yuri!!! on ice takes place in much kinder world, but what if it took place in our world as it is now? How would this world react to Russia's golden skater kissing his student on the ice after a major competition? How would their friends and loved ones react? How would Victor handle this newfound pressure?
> 
> I write this as a queer person that sometimes wants to see queer characters deal with the problems we face. I realize Yuri!!! on ice is so wonderful because it helps us escape those realities, but I felt the need to deal with them here in my own way. 
> 
> I will be updating sporadically. The title is taken from Florence and the Machine's "Heavy in Your Arms."

Yuuri takes his compliments well, this time around. A dark stain covers the back of his costume where his back had hit the ice, his blade guards dangerously askew, barely managing to get them on before being whisked away by reporters flinging question after question his way.

That’s Katsuki Yuuri for you. He over-rotates, falls, flings himself into a doomed quadruple flip- and yet you still can’t get enough of him. Victor sympathizes.

Yuuri enjoys his moment, hands on his hips, answering each question with gusto. Victor hangs back, elbows against the rink’s barrier, smiling and catching Yuuri’s eye whenever he glances over as if if to say _Aren’t you going to come over too?_ Victor just shakes his head, lips still warm and tingling from Yuuri’s mouth, enjoying the slight blush remaining on Yuuri’s cheeks.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him out of the moment. Yuuri’s smile falters as Victor retrieves it. An unlabeled number flashes across his screen, but the international code is familiar. He frowns, waiting until the missed call icon pops up, followed by a voice mail.

When he looks up again Yuuri isn’t looking at him anymore, his previous concern replaced with determination with a pinch of anxiety. Victor smiles again, this time with a tinge of sadness, and lifts the phone to his ear. 

It’s strange to hear so much fluent Russian after months in Japan. 

“ _Victor, congratulations on your student’s silver medal in the Cup of China. The FFKKR is always proud to see one of our own succeed. We look forward to your return to Moscow for the Rostelecom Cup, and also look forward to your discretion and decency that we know you will show while in a Russian rink. We know you will only bring honor to Russia as you coach Yuuri Katsuki. I don’t believe we will have to tell you twice.”_

There’s a click as the FFKKR spokesperson hangs up the phone without a send-off, her clipped female voice saying _coach_ with disgust. Victor’s blood runs cold. He balls his hand into a fist, squeezing the ungiving phone until hecan’t feel it anymore.

He swallows hard, looking up to find Yuuri’s eyes back on him. Yuuri’s wheels are already turning, absorbing Victor’s stress and interpreting it, and probably blaming himself in the process. Victor straightens up, picturing how Yuuri had landed his quadruple salchow with such grace, and smiles, striding over to the reporters and flinging a arm around Yuuri's shoulders.

“And now that Yuuri can do a quadruple flip,” he interject, “He will surely take gold at the Rostelecom Cup!”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Victor! Hic–it’s Minako. This hotel has a great bar–anyway. Just, just stay off twitter ok? This’ll all blow over. You and Yuuri are beautiful–don’t let anyone–HIC–ruin it. Please keep Yuuri distracted, he doesn’t need this right now. Don’t worry about his parents, they love you and everything you are to him… just… you know how it is right? Now where is that Chris–*click*_

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

Victor thumbs through Instagram on his bed while Yuuri showers, his Free Skate costume a puddle on the floor. Yuuri had confidently stripped in front of him, having long gotten used to each other's nude bodies from training. It was only when they locked eyes that Yuuri seemed to remember their kiss, scurrying into the bathroom with barely a muttered excuse.

Victor's Instagram is full of pictures of the podium, Yuuri’s smiling face a beacon among the three competitors.

Halfway down, he runs across a grainy picture, obviously a screenshot from a livestream, posted by an American skating friend he had met at last year’s Grand Prix. Her username an indecipherable array of x’s and numbers, he tries to remember her name. Evelyn? Marylynn? No, definitely Evelyn. He squints at the picture, frowning. 

It isn’t the best camera angle; Victor’s arm blocked their faces, but the tilt of their heads and closed eyes is obvious. He bites his lip, his heart warming from sight of Yuuri, still flushed from skating and wrapped in his arms in midair–but his mind races. 

_How cute!! So much love at the Grand Prix qualifying rounds this year ;)_ , her caption reads.

Obviously, Russia and Japan would censor out the kiss if they could for any playback broadcasts–but America was messy about this kind of thing. Voyeuristic and nosy at best, openly hateful at worst. He pauses, his finger hovering over the comments button. The number is in the high hundreds; Evelyn must have procured a fanbase in the year since her debut.

He is an impulsive person at heart, to his own detriment more often than not, so when he presses it he has no one to blame but himself. 

_Awww! Thanks for posting!_

_Fags._

_They should be able to open about this. I heard they censored it out. That’s so wrong!_

_#pride_

_Aren’t all male figure skaters gay?_

_Faggots on ice._

“What are you looking at?”

Victor gasps, his phone falling from his hand with a _plop_. Yuuri stands at the foot of the bed, eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” he adds, “You were grimacing, though.”

Victor eyes his phone, clicking the lock button to darken the screen. 

“Nothing important. How do you feel?”

Yuuri shrugs, bless him, fully clothed in sweat pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt right out of the shower. Yuuri always takes a step back before moving forward, meeting Victor somewhere in the middle. Victor doesn't mind the ritual, he'll follow Yuuri anywhere. 

“Good. Relieved. _Tired_.”

Victor smiles. “You did beautifully.”

Yuuri fusses with the sleeves of his shirt, pushing them up before pulling them back down over his wrists. 

“I wanted to surprise you.”

Victor melts. “And so you did. Did I surprise you?” he asks experimentally. 

Yuuri tenses up, and Victor waits for him to relax.

“Yes,” he says finally, “But I’m glad you did.”

Victor rises, depositing his darkened phone on the nightstand without a backward glance.

He kisses Yuuri against the chest of drawers, deep and slow this time, without the ice and the roaring crowd. Yuuri responds in kind, threading his fingers through Victor's hair and opening his mouth as soon as Victor’s tongue traces his lips. Victor rests one hand on his hip, the other settling against Yuuri’s chest, feeling for his beating heart. 

Soon the heat builds to a point, and Yuuri’s hands wander-- under Victor’s shirt, across his shoulders, _everywhere_. Victor drinks it all in–the way he sighs into his mouth, the way his hands tighten around the cloth at his sides, the way Yuuri takes control and lets go at the same time– 

“Yuuri,” he says, breaking away and leaning their foreheads together, “Yuuri, I–”

He doesn’t find the words, but Yuuri doesn’t seem to mind. They fall into bed, Yuuri straddling his hips as he dips his head lower to kiss and lick at Victor’s neck, and the thought is lost for good. 

All the while, his phone buzzes. He ignores it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

_Vitya, it’s Yakov. I don’t know why I bothered to call–it’s not as if you’ve ever listened to me. But… listen to me now. Don’t do anything stupid. Your career, you student’s career, your LIFE… ah. I’m just an old man. I know you think I don’t understand, but please don’t do anything stupid._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note, I had changed one event of the show and made it so Makkachin does not get sick. I know this is important, but this is sort of a canon compliant/divergent hybrid anyway. Enjoy!

Yuuri's short program scores are announced, and the crowd roars all around him, putting him in a fine place right away at the Rostelecom Cup. Yuuri beams, smiling and laughing as the cameras flash around them. 

“We did it!” He mouths, the words lost in the roar of the stadium. 

Victor can’t help it, in that one moment he is lost to Yuuri’s smile. He forgets where he is in the next.

Dropping to one knee, he lifts Yuuri’s foot and kisses his skate. 

In hindsight, it’s not the best choice. Yuuri’s skates aren’t exactly new and leave a funny taste on his lips, but it’s worth it to see Yuuri blush once Victor looks up through his eyelashes. The cameras click and flash, shouts erupting from the group of reporters covering the kiss and cry. 

Yuuri sits up suddenly. “Yurio! Davai!”

Victor turns around, hurling himself toward the edge of the scene to wish Yuri good luck as well. His face burns as the reporters turn towards Yuri, distracted momentarily as their hometown favorite snarls and hurls himself away from the barrier to skate a routine inspired by unconditional love. 

The international reporters vy for comments, however, obviously enamored by the photogenic moment of Victor on his knees. The Russian reporters eye him seriously.

Unlike the kiss, there’s no stopping this moment. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Yuuri accepts a dinner invitation with other skaters, but afterwards they return to the hotel early for rest up for the free skate tomorrow. They are just entering the lobby with full bellies and sleep-heavy eyes when Victor’s name rings out in the cavernous room.

“Nikiforov.” 

The voice isn’t forceful, but it’s firm. He turns; a blonde woman of medium height stands behind him, wearing a severe burgundy suit accentuated by her pin-straight posture. 

“Can I have a word?” She asks to Victor first, before turning to Yuuri, “Congratulations on your short program performance, you must feel good going into tomorrow.”

“Yes…” Yuuri says, looking at Victor and showing discomfort. Damn Yuuri and his perceptiveness. “Thank you,” he adds like an afterthought. 

The woman smiles with a closed mouth. “I’m Valeria Sokolova. From the–”

“FFKKR,” Victor finishes for her. “I never thought a higher-up like yourself would wait for me in a hotel lobby at such an indecent hour.”

Yuuri tenses at his side. 

Valeria smiles wider, showing teeth now. “We make time for all our members in any way we can. Can I please have a word with you, Victor?” She repeats, firmer this time. 

Her eyes move to Yuuri, silently dismissing him. Victor fumes, but Yuuri only shrugs. 

“I’ll see you in the room?”

Victor nods, offering a smile to soothe Yuuri’s nerves. “Just give me a few minutes.”

He waits until the elevator doors are shut to turn back. 

“I must say, you have a lovely telephone voice, Ms. Sokolova,” he stars, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“There is no reason to be on the defense, Victor,” she says, her early attempt at friendliness gone along with Yuuri, “I delivered my first warning over the telephone. Now I feel the need to make myself known.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You act like this is espionage, and not figure skating.”

Her expression remains neutral. “We asked you, quite plainly, to not make a spectacle of yourself while in your home country and representing us abroad. Where is the shame in respecting the wishes of your country?”

“My country wishes far too much of me.”

“It is because of your country that you have received the best training and have risen to your current status, before throwing it away for the Japanese boy. You will show respect.”

He scoffs, turning away and pushing his hair away from his forehead.

“So why have we not been escorted to the airport, then? Why have I not lost my membership?” Victor asks, gloved hands balled in fists at his side, “I thought the warning was the first and only?”

She purses her lips. “We have an interest in you. You should know that by now.”

Realization dawns on Victor. He sneers; an ugly look for him in an ugly moment. 

“You want two Russians on the podium at Pyeongchang.”

She offers curt nod. “We have indulged you for years, Nikiforov. The costumes, your look, your… stubbornness.”

“You mean my refusal to take your poison?” He snaps, his loud in the almost empty lobby. 

She doesn’t react, except to flick her eyes around the room. “You will be careful. Forget about membership, if you ever wish to skate representing this country again–well, let’s just say you might get another country’s citizenship by the time you’re in your mid-thirties. Think you could land all those quads then?”

Victor swallows a lump in his throat, jaw tight like she had wired it shut. 

“Nothing to say?” she taunts, buttoning her coat. “Good. It’s good practice for tomorrow, where you will take great care to keep your mouth to yourself.  _Dasvidanya.”_

She leaves Victor standing alone in the lobby, his legs wobbly beneath him.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Victor scrolls through twitter on the elevator ride up, his hands nervous and looking for something mindless to do. Tweets from Phichit line most of his feed; he had live-tweeted the men’s short program with his usual optimistic commentary. Victor pauses at a picture of Yuuri mid-spread eagle, his hands enticingly splayed against his chest.

_THAT’S MY FRIEND. LOOK AT HIM GO._

Victor smiles, nerves momentarily settling as he favorites the tweet. He can do this. He can pretend nothing is wrong when he enters his and Yuuri’s room. He can put his feelings aside until the free skate is over tomorrow.

He continues scrolling, ready to pocket his phone when a notification pops up. Someone had mentioned him in a post and he clicks on it without much thought, expecting some kind of ridiculous meme from Chris or another shout-out from Phichit. 

He frowns when he’s sees that it’s from an American skater who he follows but has never spoken to in person–

_Everyone needs to stop with the homophobic nonsense in my feed. Hop off. #lovewins @Vnikiforov @Katsukiyuuri_

Victors groans just as the elevator reaches his floor. The door opens with a ding, but he makes no effort to move, wishing he could strike the tweet away and wipe the memories of everyone who had seen it. He gathers his wits as the elevator door automatically closes again, the elevator stuck at a standstill as he shoots a quick DM to the other skater. 

_Hello! Yuuri and I appreciate your support, but we would appreciate it if you would take your last tweet down._

He fumbles with how to end it.

_We are in a complicated situation, please understand._

His screen darkens after he sends it, and he finally opens the elevator doors to step out into the hallway. He keys into their room, and he tip-toes in quietly when he sees that the room is dark. 

Yuuri is a small lump on the bed, the covers pulled up to his eyes. His dark hair, longer now than when they had first meant, splays across the white pillow. Victor swallows, plugging in his phone and toeing out of his boots and rooting around quietly for his sweatpants. 

He crawls in beside Yuuri after a few minutes, reaching out to rest a hand on his waist. Yuuri stirs, turning to bury his head against Victor’s chest.

“You’re cold,” he mumbles.

Victor smiles, lips against Yuuri’s forehead. “I just got in. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I forgive you.”

Victor settles into the mattress, eyes falling shut. Yuuri’s leg slips between his, one calloused foot rubbing against his calf. 

“Vitya?”

Victor blushes as he remembers the night after the Cup of China when they laid on one hotel bed together, shirts half-undone and breathless from want, the memory of Yuuri’s free skate still present. Victor had broken away from their kiss, one hand buried in Yuuri’s hair. 

“Call me Vitya,” he had said, faced flushed and heart pounding, “ _Please_ , Yuuri.”

Yuuri nodded, claiming his lips again before muttering _Vitya_ into his open mouth, the word made new by the caress of Yuuri’s accent– 

Yuuri is soft and relaxed now, the lack of urgency and arousal not lessening the impact of the endearment. 

“Yes, my love?”

“Is there something we need to talk about?”

Victor pulls him closer, massaging circles in the muscles of Yuuri’s back. 

“No, _katsudon_.”

Yuuri yawns against him. “Is there something we need to talk about once the Grand Prix is over?”

Victor sighs. “Maybe, Yuuri, maybe.”

Yuuri nods. “Ok.”

He falls back asleep shortly after, the adrenaline of the day wearing out. Victor holds him, almost ready to let sleep claim him when his phone buzzes loudly on the nightstand. 

He somehow untangles their limbs without waking Yuuri, too keyed up to ignore the notification. A twitter DM from the American skater lights up his screen. 

_I do understand. I apologize if I made anything hard for you. I took down the tweet._

Victor sends a quick thanks before wishing him a good night. Guilt twists at his stomach. As if one tweet from thousands of miles away could make things harder. He had been foolish to reject the support.

_Concentrate on skating, Vitya,_ a voices echoes in his head, _It will never disappoint you as much as Russia._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream at me about yoi at my tumblr------> destielpasta.tumblr.com
> 
> Also, I know that fandom is split on how to spell the boys' names. Welp, I've got Yuuri here and Victor with a c. I don't know if it's correct but since it's how I started it Im going to roll with it. I'm sorry if it is in any way inaccurate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments! I appreciate each and every reaction. When I first set out to write this fic, I wanted it to be a look into Victor's headspace that we are sometimes lacking on the show. Please remember as you continue to read that the problems they face are large societal problems, and the antagonist really isn't the woman from the FFKKR, but institutions that allow for the oppression of queer people. Just a little food for thought as you enjoy further. 
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter brings our boys back to Hasetsu for a little training before the final. I make use of one of my favorite devices: the flashback. If you're following me from the deancas fandom you know this is a tool I use a lot ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

They return to Hasetsu two days after the free skate, Yuuri basking in the relief that he made it to the final while also managing the fresh batch of nerves for the upcoming competition. Yuuri insists on keeping to a rigorous training schedule, barely putting his bags down before heading off to the Ice Castle. 

Suffice to say, Viktor has his hands full. 

“You want to change the jump to a quad flip in your short program?”

Victor doesn’t stay skeptical for long. Yuuri has a way of influencing him with passionate speeches and ultimatums, his eyes on fire and making him melt.

However, a few tries later, he shudders at the dull thump of Yuuri’s body against the ice. Not a bad fall, but Yuuri definitely takes his time getting up, brushing his hands against his pants and looking up to meet Victor’s gaze at the other end of the rink. 

“Again,” Yuuri says. 

_“Again,” Yakov says, his skates spraying snow over Victor’s hands as he stops in front of him._

_He rises, tucking his long hair behind his ears. His pants are soaked from falling, the wet material sending a chill up his spine as he begins moving again. His skates scrape as he picks up speed, shifts backwards, swings a leg around, vaults off the pick–_

_The alignment is off. He puts a hand down to stop the fall but his skates had already lost their purchase on the ice. He tumbles down again, this time on his side._

_Victor hisses, breathing through the pain._

_“Again.”_

_This time he falls on a knee, feeling it in the knock of his teeth._

_“Again.”_

_He wishes he had thought to tie his hair back when the damp strands slap him in the face._

_“Again.”_

_Victor finds himself splayed out on the ice, the salt from his sweat bitter on his lips. Minute by minute the ice under his hand melts, molding to the shape of him. His skin falls numb. He’s unsure which foot to use to get up, failing to move at all._

_Yakov comes eventually, lifting him from under his arms like a child and setting him back on his skates. Victor sniffs, avoiding his eyes._

_“I’m sorry, Yakov,” he says, the sweat mixing with tears now, “We never meant–We didn’t–”_

_He stops, the words thick and useless on his tongue._

_Yakov’s face relaxes, the lines Victor had come to know so well smoothing somewhat._

_“Vitya,” he starts, “You must be good. So good, no one will ever question you. No one will ever doubt you if you win.”_

_Victor swallows, nodding, immense relief coursing through him, along with the adrenaline of a new challenge. He swipes his hair away from his face again, and the length of it falls down his back._

_Yakov shrugs, jerking his chin back towards the ice._

_“Now, again.”_

Yuuri skates by him with speed, pulling him out of his thoughts. He loves watching Yuuri land his jumps, but nothing compares to watching Yuuri _skate_. He opens up, blossoming for the world to see; but sometimes, it’s just for Victor. 

“Yuuri.” The call is out before he can help himself.

“I know I can get it, Victor. I need to control the speed–I keep starting too fast–”

“Yuuri.”

He stops, looking up from where he had been examining his gait. Victor reaches for his hand, glad he had stopped near him. His gloves are smooth against his skin. 

“When I was sixteen, Yakov taught me how to do the quad flip.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen, his frown becoming more pronounced. “I can do it–I know I can just let me try again–”

“Yuuri.” He squeezes his hand. “Please listen.”

Yuuri’s mouth closes, and he glides over to lean against the barrier with him.

Victor fidgets, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand before starting again.    
“When I was sixteen, Yakov taught me the quad flip. He woke me up early one day and said I was going to do it. It was everything I ever wanted, I had been begging him to let me try it ever since I had gotten the quad toe loop. It was such a cold morning.”

Yuuri waits for him to continue. It’s something Victor loves, that once Yuuri had gotten comfortable with him he didn’t feel the need to fill the silences. 

“The day before, Yakov had caught me with another one of his students. A boy about a year older than me. Just kissing. But we were caught.

“Yakov didn’t say anything, just told the other boy to go home for the day. I was living with him then, so I was home. I couldn’t escape. I felt for sure that he was going to turn me out, refuse to coach me. But he just–said goodnight. And then woke me up for training the next morning.”

Yuuri leans against his shoulder. 

“I didn’t land it that day. Or the next,” he says, “But I got it the third day. And ten years ago, a quad flip meant–

“You’d win,” Yuuri finishes.

Victor nods. “Yes. I’d win.”

“Victor…”

“I’m telling you this because Yakov wanted me to be strong. To win so that no one could ever doubt me. No one would ever deny me what I wanted if I _won_.”

Yuuri straightens, leaving Victor’s side cold. 

“What drives you to win, Yuuri?”

Yuuri begins to glide away from him, his movements slow, but determined. 

“I’ve already answered that question,” he says confidently, “On network television. Probably too many times.”

Victor smiles, watching him as he builds momentum again. He works through a bit of his free skate step sequence and a couple of spins before lapsing into the preparation. 

Yuuri jumps, almost too high, but lands with a flourish. Victor’s heart pounds, slowing only when he has Yuuri in his arms once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream at me about yoi at my tumblr -------> destielpasta.tumblr.com
> 
> As always, your feedback is treasured.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a thank you for putting up with my last short chapter, here's a longer one today! Please take note of the rating change and added tags.

Victor wakes up alone one morning, Yuuri’s spot empty beside him. The always migrated to each other’s beds once the lights were out, even after saying goodnight at their respective doorways. 

He sits up, joints popping loudly when he stretches his arms over his head. Yuuri had insisted on at least five more tries at the quad flip after nailing it the day before, meaning Victor had to demonstrate twice more, his increasingly out-of-shape body protesting the abuse. Yuuri fell again, but managed three good attempts in a row, albeit one with under-rotation. Not a bad starting track record. 

A text message lights up his phone screen out of the corner of his eye. Minako’s name flashes across his screen. 

_I’ve got him here. He wanted to work out some things off the ice. He’s known to not leave a note, didn’t want you to worry._

_Which would be typical of him_ , she adds, _to not leave a note._

He smiles, warmed by Minako’s thoughtfulness. 

_Thank you._ _I was confused when I saw the sun up. Usually he wakes me at 5 AM to practice._

He sets his phone down, gathering some things to head into the shower, when his phone buzzes again.

_Honestly, I think something’s on his mind. When I asked him he said that he didn’t want to pry if you wanted privacy, but he knows that you’re hiding something._

She keeps typing after sending that message, and he waits for the follow-up. 

_You know he’s going to blame himself no matter what it is. It’s so hard for him to get out of his own head._

Victor bites his lip, running his teeth over the already chapped skin, courtesy of the prolonged hours on the ice. A sport that could never love them back, yet there they were, day in and day out. 

He types out a quick message. 

_I want him to win the Grand Prix Final. He has to keep his head,_ he stops, deleting the last sentence fragment and starting again. _I want his head to be clear and focused, not preoccupied with my nonsense._

Minako doesn’t respond until he’s almost in the shower. 

_Does this have something to do with a certain kiss at a certain Cup of China? Because he seems to be under that impression._

Victor scowls, tossing his phone onto the vanity with a clatter and stepping under the showerhead, letting the hot water roll off of him.

Of course Yuuri would think that he’s to blame; that Victor regrets kissing him and loving him and letting him into his heart. He seethes underneath the water as he soaps up his tired muscles. Where would Yuuri even get an idea like that? The day before Victor had embraced him fully on the ice after he nailed the flip, and made sure to pay special attention to him when he laid sore and tired in his bed that evening. 

Loving Yuuri was never a chore. 

He finishes washing and stands under the water, the stream plastering his hair over his eyes in a translucent curtain. He admires how the Japanese treat bathing like an art, using the time to heal their mind as well as clean their bodies. He feels no relaxation in the routine, however, and quickly shuts the water off over his still-tense body. 

He towels off, going for his phone as soon as his hand is dry despite not answering Minako. 

As expected, another message from her awaits. 

_Remember that Yuuri might define love in a different way than you, even if you think you’re doing everything right._

_You’re entitled to your privacy, but the longer you wait to tell him something the more it’s going to weigh on him. If you’re keeping something from him to help him skate better I don’t think it’s going to work._

Victor deflates while reading the message, the steam from the shower continuously causing him to have to wipe the screen. In his hesitation, yet another message pops up. 

_If you ever tell him I told you this I’ll replace your skates with hockey skates._

He smiles, relaxing again. 

_Thank you, Minako._

.

.

.

.

.

Yuuri slips into bed with Victor that night, warm from a bath and all hands. 

Victor smiles as Yuuri crawls on top of him, running his hands over his bare chest and dipping his head down to kiss his neck. Yuuri smells like soap, his skin warm and hair slightly damp under Victor’s fingers. His hands skim over Yuuri’s back and pulls him closer.

“I missed you today,” Yuuri says, nipping softly at his shoulder.

“Then why did you leave?” Victor regrets his whining tone when Yuuri pulls back, leaving him cold. 

Yuuri cocks his head to the side. “You missed me too.” It’s not a question, and the bright whites of Yuuri’s teeth stand out in the dark. He’s smiling.

Always surprised. 

Victor flips them, sinking his fingers in Yuuri’s hair and claiming his mouth, the vibrations of Yuuri’s moan sending a shudder through him. Yuuri wraps his legs around his hips, the slight roll of the movement making Victor moan in turn. Yuuri kisses like he’s starving, nipping at his lips and tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He locks his arms around Victor’s neck and rolls his hips again, his growing hardness evident.

Victor gasps, breaking away from his mouth. “ _Yuuri_ ,” he sighs, “ _Of course_ I missed you.”

Yuuri stills under him, eyes shining in the dim moonlight filtering in through the window. Victor runs a hand down his arm, stopping to lace their fingers together where Yuuri’s hand is at his neck. He draws it back down between them, kissing Yuuri’s fingers where they meet his own.

“I love you,” Victor says.

Yuuri nods, the motion frenzied. “Ok–ok.”

He sits up, gathering Victor so that he’s sitting in his lap. Victor wraps his legs around him, rocking his hips as Yuuri sighs and rests his head against his chest. He builds to a rhythm, for now just enjoying the way Yuuri’s hardness feels against his through their sweatpants, the way Yuuri gasps at every movement. 

“You have me,” Victor says, running his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, “You know that right?”

Yuuri nods against his chest and Victor takes his face in his hands, stilling his movements to look his eyes, pouring unsaid emotions into the touch.

“Vitya…” Yuuri starts, breaking his gaze and reaching for the waistband of Victor’s sweatpants. He pulls it down enough to free Victor’s cock, drawing a sigh from him as he runs a hand over the head. 

Victor does the same, shifting back into his heels to better get Yuuri’s pants out of the way, getting his hands on him suddenly the top priority. Yuuri whines when he returns the touch, giving him a few firm strokes. 

“Let me–” Yuuri says. 

Victor’s heart feels ready to burst when Yuuri licks his palm, eyes never leaving his. Yuuri pulls him flush against him, barely a breath of space between them as Yuuri takes them both in hand and strokes them together, keeping one hand pressed against the small of Victor’s back. Victor locks his legs around him, rocking into the touch with new energy. 

_No one can take this from me_ , he thinks as Yuuri pants against his chest, _They’ll have to kill me first._

“Victor– _Vitya_ , I’m going to–”

Victor speeds up the undulations of his hips, bearing down until Yuuri’s words become unintelligible. He comes, spilling between them with a hitch in his breath. 

Yuuri flops back against the bed and Victor follows him, settling between his legs. He feels the tension build in his abdomen when he thrusts against him, Yuuri whimpering and clinging to him from the growing sensitivity. After another breath he comes while Yuuri smooths a hand through his hair and holds him. 

Victor collapses to the side of Yuuri, catching his breath. Through a sheer act of superhuman strength, he’s able to grab a few tissues from the nightstand, cleaning them both up haphazardly. 

“You’re a mess, _Katsudon_ ,” Victor jokes, smiling as he tosses the tissues into the trash. 

“And who’s fault is that?”

Victor settles behind him, pulling Yuuri close to him so that his back is against his front. 

“ _Guilty_ ,” he whispers into the nape of Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri shivers, shaking with laughter. He stills after a few moments, playing with Victor’s finger where his hand sits draped over his waist. 

“I’m sorry I left today. Without letting you know, I mean.”

Victor doesn’t respond, waiting for Yuuri to finish. 

“I was with Minako, in case you didn’t guess,” he continues, “She always helps me when I feel–lost.”

Victor nods against him. Somewhere in the Inn, a door clicks shut. His watch ticks from where he had left it on Yuuri’s desk. 

“I’m always going to be worried that I’ll lose you, Victor. I don’t know if I’ll ever grow out of that.”

Victor kisses the back of his neck, a soft afterthought. 

“I’ll always be here to settle your nerves, even when I do a poor job of it,” he says.

Yuuri settles back against him, the tension melting away as he succumbs to sleep. Victor takes his glasses off and sets them on the nightstand. By force of habit, he checks his phone, raising an eyebrow when he sees a text from Yurio. He opens it, squinting at the bright screen in the dark. 

_You two better not give up,_ it reads first, the message broken up into several fragments, _Keep the pork cutlet bowl off the internet until the final._

And then, as if an afterthought– 

_Why the fuck do we live here._

Following that message is a hyperlink in cyrillic, the website familiar to Victor. Sleep pulls at him even as worry blooms in his stomach at the sight of the blue link. He shuts down the app without checking it, feeling the pull back to Yuuri and the desire for just one night of bliss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of love before some drama... As always your feedback is cherished. 
> 
> Come scream at me about yoi on tumblr-----> destielpasta.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait for this chapter. I found it very difficult to write because Victor is in such a bad headspace right now.

Victor wakes up cold.

Cold, namely because the covers are half-pulled off of him from the way his lover sits up in bed, scrolling through his phone and biting his bottom lip. Victor takes a moment to appreciate the sight; the long line of Yuuri’s torso and the pleasant blush of his lip when he finally releases it from in between his teeth. Pale winter sunlight stripes across the bed, shining off of his dark hair. 

He reaches out, looking to coax Yuuri back into the warmth of the sheets, when he sees it: a flash of cyrillic on his phone screen, followed by the familiar blue of the Yuuri’s translating app.

_Keep the pork cutlet bowl off the internet until the final._

Victor gasps, sitting up and snatching the phone away from Yuuri.

“Huh–” 

Victor flushes as Yuuri looks at him with that furrowed brow perfected from a lifetime of anxiety, the phone hot in his hands as if Yuuri had been on it for a while. He swallows.

“What were you looking at?” Victor squawks, all traces of his usual carefully constructed accent gone.

Yuuri tilts his head, lips parted. “Victor–give me my phone back.”

There’s no anger in his voice, but it’s a firm statement. Victor deflates, his face burning as places the phone back in Yuuri’s waiting hand. He drops his head to pull his fingers through own hair. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have grabbed it from you.”

A soft touch grazes his forehead, seeking out his hand and lacing their fingers together. 

Victor looks up, and swears he could stare into the warmth of Yuuri’s eyes forever, but it’s Yuuri who looks away first, unlocking his phone with other hand. The wall of cyrillic text mocks Victor, and he swallows as he makes out the headline– 

Yuuri presses a thumb down on the screen, highlighting the text and deleting it. 

“I’m going for a run,” he says, flinging the last of the blankets off of him and turning his back on Victor to get up, leaving his hand cold. Yuuri grabs his track suit from the back of his chair and stalks out of the room.

The clock ticks twice before Victor snatches his own phone from the nightstand, pulling up the link Yuri had sent him the night before. 

_Is Victor Nikiforov promoting unsavory acts with his student?_

Bile rises in Victor’s throat as he scans the article. It’s from gossip magazine website, not exactly hailed as high-quality journalism, but still, it was out there now. The slander machine runs on limited material if it has to.

_Some, including Russia’s figure skating powerhouse, the FFKKR, insist that it was just a happy embrace between student and teacher, overwhelmed from the success of the program._

_However, Nikiforov has been spotted being overly physical with his new Japanese student before, is this a sign of something sinister behind closed doors?_

A picture of their kiss takes up more room on the page than the actual article, their faces blurred out in some kind of censorship attempt, but it’s unnecessary. Victor’s arm blocked their faces from the camera anyway. 

He sighs, tossing the phone on the bed and dropping his head into his hands. 

He does some quick mental calculations. Russia’s propaganda laws prohibit images of homosexuality from being spread, ‘for the sake of our children,’ but they would stop at any full stop oppression with the United Nations just waiting to slap more sanctions on the hopelessly flawed country. Any public reason for ousting Victor Nikiforov would be related to skating–he can see the taglines now.

_He has aged, albeit gracefully, but no skater can compete forever and we support his decision to retire_. 

They would aim to remove him from the limelight as soon as possible, turn him into a figure groomed for their glorious history instead of a living person with a whole life to live yet. He wouldn’t be able to skate for Russia. 

He growls, eyes snapping open as he grabs his phone and throws it across the room. 

It hits the wall with an anti-climatic thump, dropping down. He exhales, the burning anger in his chest dissipating only slightly. He goes to retrieve it, noting only a small chip in the corner of the screen from the impact. 

He must be out of shape. 

.

.

.

.

.

He finds Yuuri during his run, riding the bicycle that he borrows from the Katsuki family from time to time, quietly following him for a few minutes. Yuuri isn’t a graceful runner on his best days, performing it like a particularly nasty chore, but Victor notes that his shoulders are even more hunched than usual. 

Victor plasters a smile on his face, trying on the expression and adjusting to how forced and stretched his muscles feel from it, before ringing the bell on his handlebars and kicking the bicycle into a faster pace to catch up. 

“ _Kon'nichiwa!_ ” he says with his best accent as he sidles up next to Yuuri.

Yuuri glares at him, feet thumping on the ground.

“Aww, is my Yuuri still grumpy from getting up so early?” 

Avoid the conflict, slap on the charm, win back the boy.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Victor…”

“I would hate it if _my Yuuri_ was sad about something. Could I see just one smile? To settle my ageing nerves?”

Victor knows if looks could kill there would be a knife in his heart from the glare Yuuri shoots him, but it quickly melts away into a smirk.

“You are ridiculous on that bicycle.”

“There he is!”

Despite the temporary respite, the weight of the unsaid is present in each of Yuuri’s strides until they arrive at Ice Castle. Victor carries their bag in over his shoulder, letting Yuuri catch his breath. 

Taking Yuuri’s hand to walk together into the rink sounds like heaven and a good way to smooth things over, but Victor can’t stop looking around for anyone who might be staring at them. 

Unfortunately, Yuuko can’t cancel every rink event for the sake of Yuuri’s training schedule, so the rink is overrun with children today. Not exactly a lot, Hasetsu’s community suffers from a lack of young, reproducing families, but enough to fill the cavernous space with the screams of the under-ten set. 

They lace up as Nishigori reaches the youngest group how to do a snowplow stop right near the rink barrier. Victor finishes first, watching as Yuuri methodically tightens each row of laces until he reaches the top. His hand itches; sometimes he kneels down and laces Yuuri’s skates for him, a ritual that would certainly bring their closeness back after Victor’s strange behavior that morning. Yuuri would blush and be secretly pleased. His eyes flick around, noting the parents sitting on the sidelines only a few feet from them. 

Of course, the young couple smiles and waves when they see him, and he recognizes them as the owners of the ramen restaurant he frequents. They wouldn’t mind if he took Yuuri’s hand and guided him out onto the ice himself.

He doesn’t, for good measure. 

They do a few warm-up laps together, staying close to the edge to avoid the different groups practicing towards the center. A few pre-teens practicing spins in the center stop to gawk at them, no doubt threatened within an inch of their lives by Yuko and Minako to give them space while Yuuri trained. Victor smiles and waves, laughing as they all turn red and turn back to their skating. Surely, they wouldn’t mind if he took Yuuri’s hand and lazily skated backwards while looking into his eyes…

Still, he doesn’t.

Yuuri is all steely focus anyway, exiting the ice to stretch before returning to begin his drills. He zeroes in on the quadruple flip right away, picking up where they left off the day before yesterday. 

Yuuri lands one right off the bat, free leg the picture of grace as it swings behind him. He searches for Victor’s gaze, and he gives an encouraging smile for him to continue. One jump landed is a start, but never a victory. 

Victor leans against the barrier, drumming his arm with his fingers as Yuuri builds up to another jump. He two foots the landing, balance shaky as he touches a hand down to remain upright. He rises immediately, brushing snow off of his track suit and building up momentum. He shifts back, vaults off the toe pick– 

_You must be good. So good, no one will ever question you. No one will ever doubt you if you win._

–and under rotates, catching an edge and falling crashing down to the ice. He lands on his left hip, crying out in pain loud enough to echo through the arena. 

Victor gasps, pushing off from the wall and skating towards him as fast as he can. The blades of skates scratch inelegantly against the ice and he collapses to his knees when he reaches him, hands settling on his arm and hip where he had fallen.

“Yuuri! Are you alright?” he says, hands searching out Yuuri’s face and checking for any signs of damage. 

Yuuri grimaces from pain, but still has color in his cheeks. 

“I’m ok. Help me up?”

Yuuri leans on him as he gets back on his feet, squeezing his hand for the continued support. 

“Just a fast fall, nothing serious–I’d know, Victor–”

Victor guides him to the rink exit, sitting him down on a bench before he could even get his blade guards on. 

“I won’t take any chances with you, Yuuri.”

He checks him all over, feeling for broken bones in his hand where he had broken the fall and making him flex his leg and hip in all possible directions to check for pain. 

The sound of an incoming text message takes him out of the moment as he helps Yuuri stretch his leg. It’s the one that sounds like a tiny bell. He looks around, thinking it might be his. No, he left his phone in the locker room. Out of the corner of his eye, a girl holds up her phone next to them, clearly watching them. 

Victor’s hands fly away from Yuuri as if it were burning him. Yuuri’s leg falls, and he looks up at Victor, confused. Victor pulls a frustrated hand through his hair, wishing he were anywhere but under Yuuri’s gaze right now. 

“Victor?”

He stands up, unlacing his own skates and throwing them into their bag. 

His voice is brisk, surprising even himself. “Let’s go. You can’t skate anymore after a fall like that.”

He stalks away towards the locker room. Despite his bruised side, Yuuri undoes his skates himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me about yoi at my tumblr-----> destielpasta.tumblr.com
> 
> Your feedback is so appreciated and definitely helps me write more, so please keep it up!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a nice long chapter (for me anyways) to make up for the wait again! Please take note of the changed tags. The relationship explored is only through flashbacks to further Victor's character development. This is only a Yuuri/Victor fic, still. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Victor…”_

_The elevator rises, and Chris kisses down the line of Victor's neck during its slow ascent, pressing a thumb against his nipple beneath his shirt. The Olympic village dormitories aren’t exactly high-rises, but at least they have a moment before they have to sneak through the hallway._

_“You skated beautifully… truly–ah–” he stutters as Chris latches onto his pulse-point and sucks._

_Chris laughs, his breath hot against the damp skin. “Liar.”_

_He reaches inside the pocket of Victor’s warm-up jacket, fondling the gold medal irreverently shoved there._

_“Might as well just throw this one on the shelf with the rest, right?”_

_Victor laughs, snaking an arm around Chris's waist and pulling him closer. It never fails, they always seem to find each other after the high of the competition; on the podium and in the bedroom._

_The elevator dings, finally at it’s destination, and he gasps–bracing two hands against Chris’s chest and pushing him away._

_No one waits by the elevator entrance, and he relaxes. He shifts back around to see Chris glaring at him._

_“You know, it’s not as if you’re a hockey player. You spin around on the ice for a living and wear pretty costumes,” he snaps, brushing his hands down the front of his own jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles._

_The elevator door closes again in their hesitation to depart, the doors rattling._

_“Chris–” he starts, “You don’t understand. It’s not you–”_

_Chris silences him with a nod. “I know. It never is.”_

.

.

.

.

.

Victor fidgets in his seat on the crowded plane, the captain having just announced their impending landing. He stretches his legs out, trying not to bump the stranger in the aisle seat or wake the sleeping beauty sitting by the window. 

He’s smiles down at Yuuri’s slumbering form, his arms curled against his chest like a child and his glasses askew. 

“Yuuri…” he whispers, nudging his shoulder, “The plane is landing soon.”

Yuuri grimaces, eyes wrinkling as he groans out a protest, obviously awake now. 

“Would you rather be jolted awake by the plane hitting the ground?”

Yuuri mutters something that sounds like “unfair” and “five more minutes.”

Victor glances over at their seat-mate, a studious, middle-aged looking woman reading a medical journal. He mentally chastises Yuuri again for insisting that he buy their plane tickets. Always with the coach seats.  However, she seems engrossed enough in her reading to not pay them any mind. 

He reaches under Yuuri’s scratchy airplane blanket to grasp his hand, lacing their fingers together and running his thumb along the lines of Yuuri's palm. 

“Time to wake up,” he whispers in Yuuri’s ear.

Yuuri lets out a small gasp, finally opening his eyes and sitting up groggily. Victor quickly removes his hand from under the blanket, straightening up and glancing sideways at their seat-mate, her eyes still glued to her book.

Yuuri looks out the window, blinking slowly as if still half-asleep. 

“I’ve never been to Spain,” he says, looking down at the nondescript land mass below them. 

“Then I shall take you sightseeing,” Victor says quickly.

Yuuri smiles, shaking his head, already dwelling on their true purpose for being in Barcelona. Victor can practically see quad flips in the reflection of his glasses. 

Their last few days in Hasetsu had been quiet, full of training and ice time and resting. Victor found himself tucking Yuuri into bed more than falling into it with him. His hip healed nicely, the bruise superficial and only a slight nuisance when he had returned to the ice the next day before clearing up completely. 

Yuuri didn’t speak of Victor’s behavior again, and though Victor was thankful, he could feel it weighing on him, the heaviness of the unsaid pulling his skates down during jumps and slowing down his usually flawless spins. Victor kept his advice distant and coach-like, providing demonstrations and explanations a-plenty. 

“Think of how it feels when you nail the jump, then try to recreate that same feeling. You’ll never miss that way,” he said one evening during a later practice after executing the quad salchow that had been giving Yuuri trouble all day. 

Yuuri had nodded, taking the advice with a cool politeness before launching himself into another jump attempt. Victor saw himself in the stubborn set of his shoulders, wishing he could crawl inside Yuuri’s head and soothe his worries away. 

The article weighs on him, the way the Russian tabloid had painted him as a predator towards Yuuri. Usually they only lauded the glory he brought to Russia at best or dismissed him as overrated at worst–never had his character been brought into the discussion. 

“Victor?” 

He realizes he’s been drifting through the Barcelona Airport, following Yuuri’s dark head through the crowds. 

“Should we get a cab?”

Victor nods, gesturing towards the exit. 

The industrial ugliness of the airport fades away as the taxi takes them deeper into Barcelona. Victor begins to recognize some of the narrow streets and landmarks, his only other trip here having been for a quick Gala skate a few years ago after his third World Championship gold. The mixture of old architecture and modern design comes through, reminding Victor of St. Petersburg. 

They pass by ornate churches and a charming downtown area speckled with shops and restaurants. Victor almost turns away before seeing it. The restaurant where it’s draped not very interesting to look at compared to the beauty around them, but the rainbow flag hangs on the inside of the window, obviously worn but present and real nonetheless. 

Victor’s eyes widen, and he whips around to face Yuuri. He looks out his own window, elbow resting on the door handle and face turned toward the late afternoon sun. His hair flops in front of his eyes and Victor itches to brush it away. 

He does. Each strand catches on on his fingers as he tucks it back.

Yuuri turns, shock registering on his face. 

Victor smiles, muscles relaxing into the expression for the first time in weeks. 

“This lighting is good for you, don’t you think?”

Yuuri blushes, shaking his head. Victor’s hand drops, moving instead to rest on top of Yuuri’s. 

.

.

.

.

.

_Click._

Chris poses in more variations than Victor can capture, splashing the water dramatically with every turn. Goosebumps cover Victor’s entire body as a chill settles even deeper over the December evening. 

“The camera loves you, Chris!” He jokes, snapping a few more shots before setting the phone on the side of the pool.

Chris emerges from the depths, spitting a stream of water into the air like a whale. “As if I needed you to tell me that.”

Victor shakes his head as Chris tips his head back. He floats, arms splayed out.

“I should say the same for you, Victor,” he says, eyes closed, “The camera certainly got one or two good ones of you in Beijing. And Moscow.”

Victor blushes, the heat creeping up his neck even in the cool water. “What of it?”

“Don’t get short with me.” Chris stands up straight, treading water, “I’m overjoyed for you. But are you overjoyed?”

Victor bites the inside of his cheek, pretending to fiddle with something on his phone. He had left Yuuri sleeping downstairs in their room, tucked in with the blankets high against his face. The jet lag always did affect him more than Victor, and he _was_ competing in less than forty-eight hours. He looks up at Chris. 

“I feel wonderful. Yuuri means everything to me.” The words come out harsh, as if issuing a challenge rather than talking about the man he loves. 

Chris whistles. “Can’t argue with that.”

“I only mean–”

“I know, Victor.”

Victor rolls his eyes, turning around and hoisting himself out of the pool. He wraps himself in a hotel towel. 

“You always cut me off. You don’t know everything I’m thinking, Christophe.”

Chris shrugs and returns to floating back on the surface of the water. 

“It doesn’t matter what I think. Does Yuuri know how you feel though? Have you been a model of healthy communication with him?”

Victor stands frozen, curling his toes in on the rough cement patio to try and ward off the chill. 

“What do I know, though?” Chris continues, “I bet you’ve shared all your thoughts and fears for the future with him… not holding him at arm’s length or anything.”

_You don’t know anything, Swiss bastard_. Victor bites back the retort. Fighting with Chris wouldn’t solve his problems… especially when the man had a point. 

Instead he throws an abandoned pool floatie at him, startling him out of his tranquil float. 

“Come on. It’s freezing out here and I need you to come help me wake Yuuri.”

Chris laughs. “Of course, I would love to.” 

Unlike Victor, Chris uses the ladder to exit the pool, wrapping a towel around his waist before following him to the stairway. 

“Come to think of it,” Chris says, “You’re in friendlier territory now. What’s stopping you from having a nice couple of days with your young man?”

Victor ignores him again, but something tightens in his chest while they descend back into the warmth of the hotel.

.

.

.

.

.

.

_Hey Victor it’s Phichit, Yuuri’s phone must be dead–wouldn’t be surprised with him. Someone said they saw you guys out and about today and I wanted to make sure you knew that were were all meeting for dinner later. Stop by if you want–should keep Yuuri’s mind off being nervous. Though you look to be doing a good job of that with all the fun pictures from your day out! Maybe we’ll see you two later?_

.

.

.

.

.

.

Victor had been surprised when Yuuri had suggested sightseeing, even more surprised when he had thrown himself into Victor’s idea of a good time despite his obvious nerves and exhaustion. 

What could he say–the environment makes a new man out of Victor. 

“Let’s go into this shop, Yuuri, I need a new scarf–”

He grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together to pull him into the shop. 

“Yuuri, these would look wonderful on you!”

He places a pair of sunglasses on Yuuri’s face, goofily askew over his regular glasses. He even leans in, loudly kissing his forehead. 

“My beautiful Yuuri!”

Victor enjoys the light shade of red Yuuri blushes as he holds him close while while walking through the crowded streets. He holds his hand across the table during lunch, and asks strangers to take their picture outside of each tourist attraction. 

Yuuri’s nerves settle enough that he offers Victor a gold ring in the eyes of the cathedral, music from a nearby choir swirling around them. Victor wonders at his own dream-like state as he slips the matching band onto Yuuri’s finger.

Being with their friends after only heightens the feeling. 

“Don’t get the wrong idea–this is an engagement ring. We’ll get married after he wins a gold medal.”

They ride the elevator back up to their room together, hands clasped. Yuuri’s palm is warm against his. 

Victor looks at him as he struggles with the key card, something of his earlier pained expression returning now. Once they’re finally inside the room, Yuuri stands tall, hands braced on his waist. Victor swallows, instincts immediately telling him to avert his eyes from Yuuri’s shining gaze. It’s the same searching look from before in the market, only sharper. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” Victor starts, but Yuuri doesn’t let him finish. 

“You’ve touched me all day long,” he stammers out, his usually shy face blush-free. 

Victor shifts on his feet. “I love touching you, Yuuri.”

“But you haven’t. Not in weeks. Not in public.” 

Victor sighs. He sheds his coat, laying it on the TV stand. 

“I don’t want you to think–” Yuuri stops, swallowing hard. “I meant what I said earlier. With the rings. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I–I’m still confused.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Victor supplies quickly, “You–It’s never been about you. None of this nonsense.”

Yuuri’s hands fidget by his sides. He still has his face mask on, half off over his chin. He pulls it over his head and places it on the bed. 

“Yuuri–”

“Victor–”

They stop. Yuuri gestures for him to continue. 

“I want to tell you everything,” Victor says. “I know my behavior these last few weeks–it hasn’t been fair to you.”

Yuuri’s expression remains neutral. Victor waits for him to interject, to finish his thought. He doesn’t. It’s Victor’s time to talk. 

“I want to tell you everything,” he repeats, “And that… terrifies me. I want to bare my soul to you and tell you all my worries and cares but–this isn’t just about us. It’s bigger. You need to do well at the final.”

“I need to win,” Yuuri says. 

Victor nods. “Yes.”

“What do you think my winning will do?”

“If you win, no one can bring you down. Not because of your past or anything else. Not because of–” he stops, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Not because of you?” Yuuri finishes for him.

Victor nods. “Yes.”

Yuuri approaches him, pulling on him gently until he sits down on the bed, side by side with him. He puts a hand on his knee, but it’s a comforting gesture. Victor looks into his eyes, wishing he could make this go away with a kiss, but Yuuri squeezes his leg again. 

“Tell me,” he says, “Please.”

Victor nods, taking a deep breath.

“After the Rostelecom cup–where I kissed your skate,” he starts, almost laughing at the memory now, “Do you remember the woman in the hotel lobby? From the FFKKR?”

Yuuri nods. 

“After the Cup of China she left a me a message–a warning really, about being outwardly affectionate with you. Then in person she–” he stops, searching for the words. 

Yuuri turns his face towards him, one finger on his chin. “You’re choosing your words. Trying not to scare me. You don’t have to do that.”

Victor swallows past the rapidly forming lump in his throat. “She threatened me. Threatened my membership, my ability to skate for my country, everything that was important to me.”

“What do they want from you?” Yuuri asks, voice almost a whisper. 

He gets up, shrugging off Yuuri’s touch and running a hand through his hair. 

“They want both me and Yura on the podium in Pyeongchang.” The words burst from him, ugly and thick. “It’s all they ever want. This international season is small fish to them at this point, they have their sights set on something bigger. But they can’t promote me as an athlete if I’m… indecent.”

“Victor…” Yuuri says, the final syllable elongated as if he didn’t want to continue. He gets up, following Victor. “Would they hurt you?”

Victor shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Pardon my vanity, but I’m too famous. Arresting me, or something equally distasteful, would incite international outcry. I’d be a martyr. Imagine the parades,” he laughs, looking up to see Yuuri grimacing.

“Don’t laugh about this,” he snaps. 

“Should I cry instead, Yuuri? I’m sorry I haven’t had the same experiences as you. The same loving family and warm home.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together. “You act as if Japan is a bastion of gay rights. I risk something being with you, Victor. You’ve been so busy brooding with yourself that you forgot.”

Victor deflates, sitting down hard in the uncomfortable hotel chair. He swivels the ring around his finger. Already it had worn in a place there.

“You’re right. I apologize.”

Yuuri doesn’t respond, standing still with his arms loose by his sides. 

“To answer your question, no. They wouldn’t hurt me, or at least not in the way you’d think,” Victor says slowly, rest his forehead on a dry palm, “They would use the press. Make me out to be old and injured, which I am anyway. Put something in my bloodwork to make it look like I cheated. Maybe get someone to trip me up on the ice or sabotage my skates if it came to that. They’d make it so I’d have to retire. They’d put me in their history books for better or for worse and be done with me.”

A door slams in the hallway, the sound of young voices chatting finds its way through the thin hotel walls. Yuuri’s watch ticks from its place on the nightstand. 

“Victor…” 

Hands encircle his face then, tilting his head back to look into the depth of Yuuri’s eyes. They shine even in the dim light, from tears and from Yuuri’s neverending resolve. 

“What would I be then, _dorogai_?” he asks, “What would I have without skating? Would you have me, then?” 

His voice breaks on the last question. He wishes he could cry. 

Yuuri brushes his thumbs across his cheekbones, his hands dry but soft. His ring is cool but rapidly warms against Victor’s skin.

“ _Vitya_ , how could you even think that?” 

It doesn’t matter, Victor can barely hear him over his own thundering heartbeat. He grabs onto Yuuri’s wrists, holding him there, keeping him close. 

Yuuri kisses him then, and it’s a soft thing. Just a brief meeting of chapped lips before pulling back.

“You would be you. With or without skating, I would want you by my side. No one can take you from me, not when you have just shown me what love is.”

Victor laughs, a relieved sound, and silently thanks God. He pulls Yuuri back down to him, sliding a hand behind his head and threading his fingers through his hair as their lips meet. 

Yuuri tilts his head, exhaling and deepening the kiss. He crawls into his lap, pressing until only a breath of space keeps them apart.

Yuuri pulls back when Victor runs a hand over the skin just beneath his shirt. He wants to lose himself in Yuuri, to forget everything and surrender to the moment. Yuuri holds him still, hands pressing firm into his shoulders. His are dark with desire and something harder. 

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, Victor. I promise.”

Victor memorizes his lover’s expression, noting the hard lines contrasting with the tenderness. 

“I promise you,” he repeats. 

Victor nods before pulling him back down to claim his lips. Yuuri is methodical and firm in his lovemaking, undressing him and laying him back on the bed and swatting Victor’s hands away when he tries to reciprocate. He takes Victor apart with his hands before taking him into his mouth, a hand braced over his hips as he escorts Victor to the brink of insanity, pleasure surging through him until it’s over. 

Yuuri gathers him into his arms and Victor relaxes back into the warmth. He registers the soft Japanese, spoken against his shoulder, only vaguely familiar to him. Yuuri pets his hair until sleep settles over him, thick like a blanket. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! This chapter goes in a different direction from the show, and I hope you understand the direction it's taking. Under these circumstances, all the characters would be subtly different in their actions and priorities, but at their core really the same. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Strangely, Yuuri’s hand is warm when he lifts it to his mouth, his ring cool against their laced fingers. The crowd roars, obviously elated to see the drama happen in person instead of through questionable news sources. 

They will soon, however, and cameras flash around them to prove it. 

Yuuri glides out out to the center of the ice after one last optimistic glance, lowering his gaze for his starting position. Victor settles in for the duration, stomach churning as the opening guitar cadenza fills the arena. 

Yuuri looks at him this time instead of the judges, a look of mean determination on his face instead of the usual seduction. 

Victor leans against his knuckles as Yuuri flies through his opening sequence, a little too ahead of the beat. _Slow down_ , he pleads, but Yuuri is past hearing him and only seems to speed up. He moves with a new crispness and refinement, but he neglects the flow and musicality that had become his signature. 

_I won’t let anyone hurt you, Victor. I promise you_.

Victor swallows, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. Videos of his reaction will surface on the internet later, almost more prized that the videos of Yuuri himself. People love to pick him apart, turn him inside out.

_“Here,” Victor says, “I don’t want to hide these things from you anymore.”_

_Yuuri sits up in bed, the sheets pooling around his torso. Victor hands him the phone, the voicemail already pulled up on the screen._

_“You can wait until after you skate,” Victor adds, “But it’s yours, if you want it.”_

_Do you want these problems, Yuuri? He asks himself as Yuuri presses the phone to his ear, the business-like tone of Valeria Sokolov leaking from the speaker._

_Will you truly stay in spite of them?_

_He follows it with the article Yurio sent him while they were in Hasetsu, and the few that had spun from it. Blurred pictures of the Cup of China kiss followed by action shots of them on the side-lines. Victor tying his skates. Victor kissing his skates._

_Yuuri quietly absorbs the information, giving Victor his phone back when he’s done._

_“Thank you for showing me this,” Yuuri says, “I don’t want to see anything else just now.”_

_“Of course–” Victor starts before Yuuri launches himself at him, lining up their bodies from chest to ankle and kissing him recklessly._

_Victor buries his hands in his lover’s hair, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. He revels in the feeling of Yuuri’s weight on him, so solid and present that he barely registers when Yuuri pulls a fraction of an inch away to lean their foreheads together, his smile foreign in the tense air._

_“Watch me tonight.”_

_Victor’s face scrunches in confusion._

_“I mean when I’m on the ice,” Yuuri says._

_Victor stifles a laugh. “Where else would I go?”_

_Yuuri’s smile fades. “Promise me you will?” His eyes are hard._

_“I promise.”_

“Vitya?”

Victor rips his gaze away from Yuuri, turning towards the voice.

“Yakov?”

His coach stands behind him, hands loose at his sides and face grimaced in worry. 

“We need to talk,” Yakov says in soft Russian. 

Victor shoves his hands in his pockets, a scowl settling on his face. “Yuuri is skating–it can wait.”

“You are not Yuuri’s coach, and you know it. He has coached himself all season–the more you became enamored with him,” Yakov sighs, massaging his thumb and forefinger into his brow. 

“Victor, they called me.”

Victor swallows, Yuuri’s Eros music swirling around him. The halfway mark passes. Yuuri will be preparing for his first jump in mere seconds. 

“What did they say?”

Yakov’s hand falls to his side. “You will not skate under the flag if you don’t sever ties with Katsuki.”

There’s a swelling of applause and cheers–Yuuri’s first successful jump. Victor presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, quelling the urge to spit at the mention of the Federation. 

“Shouldn’t you go coach Yuri, Yakov? It will be his turn soon.”

“Victor–” 

“Enough,” he snaps, “I am not a toy. You can’t manipulate me–my student is skating, Yakov. I have no interest in this right now.”

Yuuri’s music ends with its usual flourish, and Victor whips around to see him frozen in his final pose, eyes locked onto where Victor’s back had been to him just moments before. 

Yuuri collapses, his knees hitting the ice as he bangs his fists against it. His face reddens, and the tears falling down his face shine in the bright lights. Victor’s heart stutters in his chest. 

He looks up at the jumbo screen above the rink, slow motion replays of Yuuri’s jumps already playing. The first–the toe loop, had been successful, followed by a successful combination. But the flip– 

_Oh, Yuuri._

His hand touched down on the ice, and Victor spots the exact moment when he had looked for him–just a glance from Victor to know that everything is alright. Yuuri hadn’t gotten that glance, just the vision of Victor’s back to him. 

Anger renewed, he whips back around to scream at Yakov, tongue prepped for the ugliest words in his native language–but he’s gone. 

Yuuri leaves the ice eventually, not bothering to gather any of his fan’s gifts like he usually does. Victor meets him at the exit, but it’s a far cry from their usual reuniting ritual. His  face is wet, and he takes Victor’s offered hand. Where his hand had been warm before, now it's cold and wet from the ice. Victor helps him into his jacket and leads him to the kiss and cry, sliding his arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. 

“Yuuri–”

The scores appear quicker than usual, cutting him off. 

97.83

Phichit glides out onto the ice, time slipping by as if through a sieve. 

“Yuuri,” he starts again, but Yuuri pulls away, leaving Victor’s arms cold while accepting a towel from a nearby rink attendant. He swipes it across his forehead once before bending at the waist, resting his elbows on his thighs. It hangs in front of him. 

Victor leaves him be, unmoving as a statue while Phichit gives a spirited performance. There's is a friendship made far from home, and Victor hadn’t even thought to reach out to Yuuri’s only international friend. Victor wonders what he could learn about Yuuri from him.

He only looks away when he hears angry Russian spoken from the area next to the kiss and cry. 

“You can’t make me, old man–”

“Yuri be sensible–” 

“I won’t skate for them, I won’t–”

Yuri Plisetsky stands on the sidelines, still with his warm-up jacket over his costume, arms folded over his chest, and a stone-cold expression set on his face. Lilia reaches out to him, trying a motherly approach that doesn’t suit her. Yuri bats her hand away. 

“Yuri, you’re young, you would be throwing your career away–” Yakov pleads, the anger in his voice thickened by genuine fear.

Yuri just adjusts his arms. He presses his mouth into a thin line. 

“Representing Russia, please welcome Yuri Plisetsky!”

Yuri digs his heels in. He hasn’t even taken off his skate guards. His time ticks away. 

His name booms over the speaker again, this time with more insistence. Victor sits frozen on the bench, cognizant of Phichit beside them now, waiting get his own scores, but the judges aren’t looking at their computers now. 

Yuuri rises, brushing past Victor. He strides over to where Yuri and Yakov stand, stooping down and ripping off Yuri’s blade guards. Yuri's arms fly out in front of him to regain his balance, but Yuuri manhandles him until his jacket is off as well. Then the screaming starts. Every ugly name Yuri had ever called Yuuri rips from his mouth, but it's all ignored. Yuuri shoves him out onto the ice, blocking the entrance until Yuri has no choice but to skate to the center of the rink and take his starting position.

Yuuri returns, collecting Victor from the kiss and cry with a hand on his arm. He pulls him towards the sidelines as the arena catches up to itself; Phichit's scores are announced in the few seconds before Yuri’s music starts, the numbers humble but good. Yuri is a flurry of motion on the rink, his almost violent movements the opposite of agape. 

Yuuri watches for a few moments before walking towards the locker room. He paces back, grabbing Victor’s arm again and forcing his gaze. 

“We can fight our own battles,” he says, eyes shining but fiery.

Victor nods, but the motion is small and not enough for Yuuri. He shakes his, jarring him. 

“Right?”

Victor swallows, frozen to the spot even when Yuuri gives up and walks away. 

“Yes,” he mutters as Yuri raises his arms over his head in his final pose. “We can.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr about yoi ------> destielpasta.tumblr.com
> 
> Also, I just want to thank everyone who has been reading this fic and providing encouragement along the way. Your kudos and comments mean the world to me, especially in a fic that isn't always easy to write or incredibly satisfying to read. I always appreciate any questions or feedback you might have.
> 
> EDIT: holy typos batman-- I apologize that the first posting of this was so badly edited. I redid it, and hopefully most of you get the edited version.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ducklings, I managed to eke out another chapter in record time. Hold on, the feels are coming.

Victor slides down the wall, the picture rail moulding digging into his back. He sits on the plush carpet of the hotel hallway, his phone against his ear. It rings four times before voicemail picks up, and he hangs up. 

The phone is warm against his forehead. He waits a few minutes before trying again.

“Yeah?”

“Yuri!”

“What do you want?” Yuri’s voice echoes strangely. 

“Where are you?” 

“Locked in the goddamn bathroom,” Yuri growls, “It’s the only way Lilia would let me answer my own damn phone.”

Victor massages his forehead. “Yuri, you really shouldn’t swear–”

“ARE YOU _FUCKING_ KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW–”

“Ok, ok,” Victor cuts him, off glancing down the still deserted highway, “Easy. You made your point. What’s going on? Are you ok?”

“Ahh–Lilia is on babysit Yuri duty while Yakov takes the punishment call from the Federation. Doesn’t sound too good.”

Victor swallows. “Do you think they’ll let you skate tomorrow?”

“Of course they will, greedy  assholes,” Yuri snaps, “Did you see my score?”

“We left before it was announced.”

He pauses. “Well, I broke your lousy record.”

In spite of everything, Victor laughs softly. “That’s great, Yuri. You must be excited.”

Yuri makes a disgusted noise. “Excited? I swear when I get my hands on you Nikiforov–”

“Don’t let them do this, Yuri,” he says. Strangely enough, it cuts through Yuri’s angry tirade and he falls silent. “Don’t let them take this from you. Have your moment.”

Yuri sighs. There’s a clink of porcelain, as if he had finally sat down on top of the toilet seat. “I will have my moment when they fucking stop with the dick moves. I heard them on the phone with Yakov yesterday talking about you and _katsudon_ – it’s why I did it in the first place.I’ve never hear that man beg. It sounded like he was crying. I didn’t want to go out on the ice for them after that.”

Victor exhales, running a hand through his hair and pulling. The slight pain brings clarity. 

“I didn’t even think Yakov wanted me back.”

Yuri scoffs. “You know how he is. All bark and no whatever the fuck it is. Of course he wanted you back. We–” he stops. “We all wanted to see you skate again.”

Another day, and Victor would have teased Yuri for his tender exclamation. Today, he just sighs. 

“It’s not important. It’s just…”

What would he say? Just a game? Skating isn’t like other sports where you compete to win against others; you compete to win against yourself–something bigger than any game. He would never have the chance to test himself now.

“I’m sorry I upset the piglet,” Yuri continues, voice as soft as Victor had ever heard it. “I was trying to help.”

Yuri sounds young in that moment. Through all his anger and posturing he had forgotten how young his protege is compared to Yuuri. 

“I know, _Yuratchka,_ I know.”

They sit in silence for a few moments. A door slams down the hall, but it remains empty to Victor’s gaze. Yuuri moves around in the room behind him, his footsteps soft against the carpet. 

“Don’t skate for them, Yuri,” Victor says, “I never have. I skate for myself, and my fans and family, but never for them.”

“How do I make that distinction? How do I make sure they know it’s not for them?”  


Victor rises, leaning back against the wall. They aren’t talking about skating anymore. “You make it known to yourself first, and hope it comes through in your feet.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

Yuuri sits on the bed when Victor returns, hunched over his phone and scrolling rapidly. 

“Phichit put a picture of your sit spin on instagram,” Victor says, shutting the door softly behind him, “It’s a good one. I don’t know how he got it when he was preparing to skate right after you. It’s a nice picture, though.”

“Phichit is a good friend,” Yuuri mutters, his phone screen darkening before he tosses it on the bed beside him. 

Victor feels grimy. The combination of the cold rink and heat under his layered jackets always leaves a layer of sweat over his skin. 

“I’m going to shower.”

“Ok,” Yuuri says. He still wears his tracksuit, hair escaping it’s slicked-back coif. 

Halfway to the bathroom door, Yuuri stops him. 

“When you’re done, we should talk?”

Victor notices the upspeak at the end of the sentence, as if Yuuri were asking a question. He smiles.

“Of course, _katsudon._ ”

He showers quickly, resisting the siren song of the hot water running down his back. Yuri’s voice rings in his ears, its young cadence full of fear and anger. Victor always had his suspicions, but had never given much thought to just how much Yuri was similar to him. 

He towels off in the swirling steam, wishing he had thought to rinse with cool water. The air is stifling, and he braces his hands against the vanity to steady himself. 

_You will not skate under the flag if you don’t sever ties with Katsuki_.

He closes his eyes, visions of rings dancing behind his eyelids. 

He swings a hotel robe over his shoulder, wishing not for the first time for the comforts of the Hasetsu Onsen. The comforts of home. 

When he emerges, he sees that Yuuri moved to the bed by the window, his gaze on the sprawling city below. He dries behind his ears with a towel, watching the tense set of Yuuri’s shoulders. He sets it on the bed, shaking his head before striding across the room.

“What a beautiful view,” Victor says, sitting on the window sill to face him.

Yuuri smiles, the motion only just reaching his eyes. “You’re not looking out the window.”

Victor returns it with gusto and visible teeth. “Of course you’re the view. I love it when you fish for compliments.”

Yuuri shakes his head, his smile fading as quick as it came. Victor braces himself, the change in the air so thick he could run a hand through it.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asks.

Yuuri looks down at his hands, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. 

“After the final, let’s end this.”

Victor starts. “Huh?”

Yuuri rambles. Something about his last season and Victor’s coaching being the route of success for him. He bows low despite his seated position, and somewhere in Victor’s mind is registers that it has significant meaning. He can barely see, however, as tears obscure his vision. 

_You are not Yuuri’s coach, and you know it. He coached himself all season–the more you became enamored with him._

Victor blinks a few times, and the tears catch on his eyelashes before splashing down to his cheeks. They flow silently, without a hitch in his breath. 

Yuuri gasps softly in front of him. 

“Victor…”

He unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Damn. I never thought Katsuki Yuuri could be so selfish.”

Yuuri’s hands curl into fists against his thighs. “If you want to see it that way, ok.”

There’s a tick of silence. Victor still stares into empty space, refusing to look anywhere near Yuuri. A hand swipes his bangs away from where they had fallen in front of his face. 

“What is it, Yuuri?”

“I’ve just never seen you cry, is all.”

He pushes the hand away. “I’m mad, ok?”

Yuuri huffs. “You’re the one who said it was only until the Grand Prix Final!”

Victor shakes his head. “Why are you talking about skating, Yuuri?”

When he finally looks at Yuuri, expecting the answer, he flinches at how hard he looks. 

“Because this is about skating, Victor. As long as you’re with me you can’t skate. I’m retiring. And you’re going back to St. Petersburg.”

He swipes at his own eyes, finally wiping away the tears. “So what? This is only your decision then? What if I don’t want to skate for them anymore?”

Yuuri settles his hands back in his lap. “I’m making my own decision. I won’t let you give up your career for me.” 

“How can you tell me to return to the ice while saying you’re retiring?” He flies forward, looking for something solid. He settles for Yuuri’s shoulder. “I could never– _Yuuri_ –Do you think I could ever?”

Yuuri sags, but he meets Victor’s raised voice with his own. “You won’t skate again. _You won’t_. Think about that. Maybe I can win but you _will win_ if you come back, Victor.”

“I don’t have to get a number score to find meaning in my skating Yuuri–”

Yuuri surges forward, standing so he is almost at eye level with Victor. “Really? You mean you won’t come to hate me? Blame me?”

Victor stutters. “Of course not–”

“I won’t watch you lose yourself. _I won’t_. You won’t lose everything because of me. Everything will be great for a while, but then you’ll hate me. You won’t be able to stand the sight of me–you won’t–” Yuuri’s voice hitches, the words sticking in his throat. “Yes. I’m being selfish, then.”

The seconds tick past, and Yuuri stares up at him like he’s issuing a challenge. Victor sighs, running a hand through his hair distractedly.

“Don’t pull on your hair.” Yuuri reaches up, snatching his hand and pulling it close to him.

“Don’t try to take my happiness from me,” Victor snaps, “Stop talking about skating and say what you mean.”

“We can’t be together!” Yuuri shouts, “We can’t be together because no one wants see us together.” Yuuri is the one crying now, his face red and glasses almost askew. “I can’t–I can’t think of a world where you aren’t allowed to skate. Do you think they’ll stop at you competing? How will you do anything if they aren’t on your side? You said it yourself, they could hurt you enough to keep you off of it permanently–”

“Stop,” Victor says, his voice cracking, “You have to skate tomorrow. Just. Stop.”

Yuuri breathes heavily, as if he had just run a marathon. “Victor…”

Victor can’t bear to hear any more. He exhales, trying to regain his composure. “I messed up today, but I intend on being a perfect coach for you tomorrow.” He looks around. “Why are you still in your track suit–you should shower so that you’re relaxed and can sleep–”

He cuts himself off, swallowing hard and squeezing Yuuri’s hand. 

Yuuri shakes his head, all the fire gone from his eyes. “It wasn’t you. Today.”

“I didn’t help,” he says quickly, “Tomorrow is all about you, not my skating career and certainly not the Russian Figure Skating Federation.”

Yuuri bows his head, tension falling from his shoulders. “Yuri scared me today.”

Victor pulls him close, releasing his hand to smooth it over Yuuri’s back instead. “He scared me too. He’s only a child.”

Yuuri lays his head against Victor’s chest. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt because I couldn’t help falling in love with you.”

Victor tenses, pulling back to look into Yuuri’s eyes. They’re open and honest, but clouded with fear.

He pulls him closer before Yuuri can blush, before he can take it back out embarrassment or whatever other anxieties that run through his mind. He kisses the top of his head, breathing in the clean scent of his hair. 

Victor pulls back, taking in the sight Yuuri’s kind and loving face before him. He rubs a thumb along his cheek. 

“Oh my Yuuri, you’ve been so sad.”

He kisses him then, soft and slow like a heartbeat. Yuuri sighs into his mouth when he parts his lips, pulling him closer using the sash of the hotel robe. 

They end up on the bed. The robe falls open and Yuuri’s hands replace it, running up and down his sides until Victor shivers from the sensation. Yuuri kisses him like he can’t get close enough, hooking a leg around the back of his knee and running a heel over his thigh. 

Yuuri flips them, using his newfound leverage to bear his hips down against Victor’s. He gasps, pushing up the hem of Yuuri’s shirt to get at the skin there, the fire in him slow-burning like magma. 

“Promise me,” he says as Yuuri kisses a line down his neck, “Decide tomorrow. Skate tomorrow and then decide. I won’t–I won’t stop you if you want to go.”

Yuuri pulls back, a protest already on his lips. Another fight, another round. Victor steals the words with another kiss, pulling him back down.

_Tomorrow,_ he thinks. He loses himself in the planes of Yuuri's skin, endeavoring to keep each touch from feeling like a goodbye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream at me about yoi on my tumblr ------> destielpasta.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you for reading, as always!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! The last chapter. Thank you again for coming on this ride with me, and sticking through all the ups and downs. I appreciate your feedback and encourage more than I could ever say.

“Katsuki Yuuri has succeeded in creating a masterful culmination of his career!”

Victor swells with pride when Yuuri steps onto the podium, bowing his head slightly to accept the silver medal. He swears his heart hasn’t beat since Yuuri landed his quadruple flip with enough flourish to bring the audience to their feet. Yuuri touches the medal around his neck, eyes shining in the bright arena lights as Yuri skates out to thunderous applause. 

Yuri accepts his gold medal with a frown when the strap catches on his braids. 

_When Yuuri’s scores light up the screen, shattering Victor’s record, he pulls him close by the hand._

_“No one can doubt you now, Yuuri, not even yourself.”_

_Yuuri relaxes in his arms._

_“No one can doubt us. I’m still waiting for your decision.”_

_Victor frowns._

_“I still have time.”_

Yuuri holds his medal up to him when he exits the rink. He smiles, worry winkling the corners of his eyes. Victor wants to kiss them away, despite the tension still present between them. 

“It’s not a gold medal, but–”

He’s swiftly cut off by a suit-wearing ISU official, the young man’s credentials hanging from a lanyard around his neck. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Katsuki.” The kids is obviously a bundle of nerves and he barely looks Yuuri in the eye, “But all the medalists are being asked to report to the press room for a conference.”

Victor crosses his arms. “What’s this for? The official press conference isn’t for another hour.”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Nikiforov. Coaches are being asked to come as well. If you’ll just follow me–” He gestures towards the exit.

Victor bristles, none too pleased at having a nice moment with Yuuri stolen from him by a squirrely bureaucrat. He side-eyes Yuuri, who simply shrugs before taking his warm-up jacket from Victor and throwing it over his shoulders. 

“Let’s get this over with.”

They make their way to the press room through the throngs of people. Some cling to them, slowing them down when they plead for a picture, others just trying to find the exit in all the activity. When they reach the room, JJ and his parents are already sitting on the raised platform, and a characteristically somber Yakov herds Yuri to his seat in the middle. 

_“Yakov!” Victor calls down the hallway, following the brightness of Yuri’s hair in the harsh basement light. He jogs to catch up, his body light from the high of Yuuri’s performance._

_“Just the man I wanted to see,” he says, smiling at the somber Russian crew. Lilia turns up her nose, walking away down the hall. Victor ignores it in favor of addressing Yuri and Yakov._

_“Yakov,” he says again, stopping to catch his breath._

_“Out of breath running down the hallway? How you’ve let yourself go,” Yakov says, frowning._

_“I’m sorry,” Victor says, “You shouldn’t have had to deal with my problems. I’m sorry I left without thinking about how it would affect you. Things will change soon, and I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me before they do.”_

_Yakov’s brow dips. “What are you thinking of doing–”_

_“And Yuri…” he pulls the boy into his arms, holding him close. “Skate well, please.”_

Victor guides Yuuri with a hand on his back to the two seats obviously reserved for them. 

A substantial group of reporters gather in front of them, guzzling cups of coffee and settling in. Victor recognizes some of them from previous competitions, but some are unfamiliar. An undercurrent of spoken Russian floats back to him at the podium, and he searches for the speakers.

Yuuri squeezes his thigh under the table, startling him out of his trance. He smiles, trying to appear reassuring.

Another ISU official calls the room to order, starting with the canned congratulations for all the competitors and thanking everyone for being here on short notice so quickly after the medal ceremony. Something about time constraints. Victor grimaces at him, the man too fidgety and nervous sound for his tastes. 

“We’d like to open it up for questions for our medalists.” A raucous smattering of voices erupts, nearly shaking the foundation of their raised platform. The ISU official, clearly overwhelmed, tries to quiet the room with little success. 

Yuri, already a twisted stick of dynamite ready to explode, slams his foot down, rattling the platform and shutting up the room.

“We might be able to answer a question if you didn’t all speak at once!” he shouts. Yakov shoots him a look like daggers.

It does the trick, though, and a journalist in the front with a spanish accent asks the first comprehensive question. 

“I am speaking to Yuuri Katsuki,” she starts. Yuuri stiffens in his seat, but nods once in acceptance. “How does it feel to be on the podium after such a disastrous season last year?”

Yuuri freezes, and Victor tries to school his expression into something other than rage. 

The first question? Really?

Yuuri swallows. “I am very appreciative to my fans and family who have stood by me through my career. It is an honor to be on the podium with other amazing athletes.”

Victor nods, glad that Yuuri is picking one liners from the Grateful-Athlete’s-Guide-to-Making-my-Country-Proud instead of improvising. 

She lifts the microphone again. “You don’t attribute your win to you changing your coach to Victor Nikiforov?”

Victor glances at the ISU representative sweating next to the platform. Usually, it was their job to move along leading questions like this one that only serve to heighten drama and cheapen reputation of figure skating worldwide. He stands with his arms crossed, lips pressed into a hard line.

“Victor has been a wonderful coach,” Yuuri says, leaning forward to speak into the microphone, “I would not be here without him.”

Another reporter jumps in. “My question is for Yuri Plisetsky.” Yuri leans forward; Yakov visibly blanches. “Congratulations on your victory, of course.”

Yuri nods, his unsmiling face contrasting wildly with the gleaming gold medal around his neck. 

“Do you have a statement about your refusal to go on the ice yesterday? And how you followed it up with a record breaking performance?”

Yuri scowls. “Sons-a-bi– OW!” The platform shakes again, Yakov clearly having kicked Yuri under the table. “I was–nervous. This is my first senior season. I’m so _grateful_ for the win and _grateful_ for honorable competition.”

Yuri sits back in his chair, crossing his arms and daring anyone else to direct a question at him.

Another reporter jumps in the fold, a dark haired woman from the back of the room. Victor recognizes her as the formerly badge-wearing ISU representative that had given Yuuri a towel after his short program the day before.

His clenches his fist under the table. 

“Mr. Katsuki, do you have a comment on your public physical relationship with your coach? Care to clear up the nature of your relationship?”

Victor looks at Yuuri, who holds his face completely steady and free of reaction. In his day, Victor would have played it off with a joke, a smile and a sarcastic comment that would have charmed the crowd. Yuuri has his own neutral approach. 

“Victor has shown me how to connect my life with my skating. I do not have a comment beyond his role as a coach in getting me here today.”

She isn’t finished. “He has repeatedly made public advances toward you and you have no comment–”

“Hey! You down there!” A shout comes from down the line, from a previously silent JJ. He directs it towards the ISU rep, “Are you going to let this just go on?”

JJ’s parents looks around nervously, his mother laying a hand on her son’s shoulder. He sits back, but the representative just steps further off to the side. 

Yuri mutters under his breath, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Anyone care to ask Katsuki how he landed a quad flip at the end of his routine?”

A shouted question comes from the middle of the pack. “Why would you learn Victor’s signature move in so short a time–”

“Damn it all–” Victor cuts off the reporter, grabbing the microphone stand from in from of Yuuri and setting it down in front of himself with an amplified _thump_.

“You can get your answers directly from the source, if it pleases you.”

Silence.

He fumes. “Someone has to ask it. Please. I know they paid you. Just spit it out so that we can all go home.”

A suffocating quiet settles over the room, making the low hum of the microphones seem loud. 

A short man steps forward, all serious, straight expressions. He holds a audio recorder in one hand and a notepad in the other. He fixes his dark glasses before he speaks.

“Victor, what do you say to allegations that you are being expelled from the Russian Figure Skating Federation because of inappropriate relations with your student?”

Victor takes a deep breath. “I have not been expelled.”

There’s a collective sigh around the room. 

“I have decided to leave. I will not be competing under the Russian flag for the foreseeable future.”

The blinding flash of cameras fills the room as the press core surges forward, screaming, demanding answers. Victor swallows, all other words stuck in his throat. Something nudges his foot under the table. He recognizes it as the covered toepick of a skate.

Yuuri smiles, the stretch of it so small it would be incomprehensible to a stranger. 

“I’m here, Vitya.”

.

.

.

.

.

With Yuuri’s permission,Victor tells Phichit to make them famous. 

There’s nothing original about the made-for-instagram-type picture. Couples do sappy things all the time to let people know they’re in love. It’s the first of it’s kind for them, however, and they both blush profusely during the ‘photoshoot.’ It’s simple, their arms crossed in the front of the shot with their ringed fingers held up to each other’s lips in a mirrored pose. Victor finds the whole things very Victorian, and he stares into Yuuri’s eyes while Phichit snaps photo after photo, looking for the perfect angle to drop a proverbial bomb on the internet. 

Phichit doesn’t hesitate once his services are requested using all his power to share the post and keep it bumping up multiple feeds to service multiple time zones. He also helps them switch their outgoing plane ticket to a one-way to Detroit with a temporary on-rush travel visa. They would be laid up in Barcelona a week longer, but Yuuri insists it’s the best move. 

_“Are you sure? America is not perfect. Not even close.” Victor asks as Phichit clicks around on his laptop behind them, giving the courtesy of at least pretending not to listen in the small hotel room._

_Yuuri sighs. “The JSF hasn’t contacted me. I honestly don’t know how they are going to receive me.” Victor starts to respond, but Yuuri cuts him off with a wave of his hand, “I will go home for Nationals, but for now I think it’s better to stay away. Let things die down.”_

_Victor nods, thinking about Yuuri’s parent’s smiling faces that wouldn’t be able to greet their medal-winning son with a pork cutlet bowl. The grief of it overshadows his relief that Yuuri has finally decided to not retire._

_Yuuri takes his hand, squeezing lightly. “My parents and Mari love you. Hasetsu loves us, but this isn’t the type of publicity I want to bring there.”_

_Victor nods again, wondering when his throat will unstick and allow him to speak in earnest. “So… Detroit?”_

_Yuuri rises, wringing his hands. “For now. It’s not… it’s not like we can be completely out in the open there. I wasn’t part of any community there, but there were things going on, not great things– We’ll need to find somewhere else when we get settled–” His eyes shine, and he reaches out for the clothes littering the floor, throwing them in his suitcase._

_Victor stands, taking both of Yuuri’s wrists and holding him still, both of their rumpled sweatpants hanging from his hands. “It will be perfect because we’ll be together. No one cares about figure skating in America anyway.”_

_Yuuri’s face cracks into a smile, and Victor kisses his forehead._

Still, guilt gnaws at Victor’s stomach as the plane touches down on American soil, but this, at the end of the day, is Yuuri’s choice. Victor couldn’t go home either way. His apartment will sit empty and gather dust until he can find a buyer and his spot at his home rink will be filled by an up-and-coming star, if Yakov wants to keep his place as Russia’s top coach. 

Celestino gets them settled in one of his properties usually reserved for his students while they search for somewhere more… Permanent? Victor can’t say for sure. It’s a tiny apartment with only a hotplate and mini-fridge, but the bed is comfortable. The mini-fridge is stuffed full of Yuuri’s favorite American foods, courtesy of Yuuri's former rinkmates learning about his return. 

Yuuri trains his old rink during the day, Celestino being kind enough to give them a little pocket of space while he trains his army of novices. They throw themselves back into it, sighing with relief when another long-term visa is approved and they are cleared to travel in and out of the country. Yuuri sweeps Japanese Nationals, taking gold by a large margin and talking less to any reporters that try to sneak a quote about Victor. He’s back in Detroit within a week, boarding a plane as soon as the Exhibition Skate ends. 

Victor receives a letter a week later with FFKKR letterhead splashed across the envelope. He grimaces, opening it with shaking fingers while Yuuri comes in holding armful of groceries.

“Victor, would you help me with these–” He stops when he sees the letter in Victor’s hand, setting the bags down on the floor and striding over to the tiny kitchen table. 

He doesn’t say anything, just lays a hand on Victor’s shoulder as he reads, eyes flicking back and forth like a typewriter. A deep frown settles in his mouth, and his stomach twists.A formal letter of expulsion from the federation, it cites his insubordination and disrespectful behavior at the Grand Prix press conference as the reason. It makes no mention of his relationship with Yuuri or any previous accusations of unsavory behavior. 

Yuuri’s lips touch his neck, kissing tenderly while he wraps his arms around Victor’s torso. The pressure against his chest is soothing, and Victor turns, standing up and letting himself come apart in Yuuri’s arms, sobbing into the black lycra of his warm-up jacket covering his shoulder. Yuuri speaks calmly in his ear, a mixture of languages that makes his chest ache. 

Yuuri holds him until the sobbing subsides, and then he pulls out his phone, typing furiously into his browser’s search engine. 

“This isn’t the end,” he says.

.

.

.

.

.

Victor fidgets backstage, the screaming of the crowd inside the arena growing louder with every team that enters for the ceremony. Pyeongchang had come quickly, the opening ceremonies already commencing inside the giant dome. His teammates gather around him, an inclusive group that somewhat share English as a common language. They are nervously silent too, feeding off their mutual energy. Victor had grown in affection for them since arriving at the Olympic Village only a week ago. 

“And now, the Olympic Refugee Team!”

Victor smiles at the flag bearer, a seventeen year old Syrian girl named Yara. He had graciously declined the original proposal that he carry the flag, knowing his struggle did not compare with hers. He's an independent Olympian after all, the only one of his kind this year and not under the refugee team flag despite walking in with them. He did accept Yara's offer to walk in together instead, leading their band into the arena hand-in-hand. 

They step out of the staging area into blinding white lights and flashing cameras, the white of the Olympic flag whipping out behind him and Yara as they receive thunderous applause. He smiles and waves as the crowd leaps to its feet, knowing cameras from across the world are most likely panning in on his face, rehashing his story until the public can recite it verbatim. 

_Russia ousted him for being with a man, another figure skater._

_Is that the official story?_

_Of course not, but we all know what’s going on here._

They hadn’t gotten a direct quote, however. He had declined all interviews and publicity, and without a country or federation to represent he found that the decision was refreshingly completely up to him. 

They take their place in the throngs of teams waiting for the official festivities to begin, knowing that if Sochi is an example to go by that the afterparty would go long into the night. He scans the crowd. He spots the Russian team first, picking out a small french-braided blond head bobbing up and down to be able to see over the much taller heads in front of him. He looks away. He’ll see Yuri later, if the young boy will have him. 

Japan’s team sits near the front, and he searches for the lone flag-bearer in the sea of athletes. He smiles when he spots him, one Katsuki Yuuri, gold medalist at Japanese Nationals and the Four Continents Championship. His heart warms at the acceptance and love Japan had shown Yuuri over the last few months, going above and beyond for their new favorite son. 

The ceremony ends late, and the teams disperse to find old friends and family amongst the crowd. He bids goodbye for now to Yara and his teammates, and in a clear spot on the floor amongst the teeming masses,he meets Yuuri. 

Victor straightens the lapels of his blazer, running a thumb over Japan’s Olympic insignia. “You look amazing.”

Yuuri smiles, looking as shy as the day Victor had first come to Hasetsu. “Not as good as you.”

Victor swallows, taking both of Yuuri’s hands in his. “I can’t wait to see you on the podium.”

“Together,” Yuuri says quickly, as if finishing his sentence. “I’ll see you there.”

Yuuri’s lips are warm against his when Victor pulls him in, flush against each other. 

Cameras flash around them, but he pulls Yuuri closer, knowing that their faces will be splashed across Olympic news by daybreak. 

This time, it’s on their terms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me about yoi at my tumblr -----> destielpasta.tumblr.com
> 
> I also would like to thank [mtothedestiel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel) for all of her support while I wrote this and constant validation that yes, it's good. Please check out her fics, yuri on ice and otherwise. They are so good and pure. 
> 
> I did my best while writing this fic to not paint any one nation or culture as angel/villain when it comes to its treatment of its LGBTQIA+ citizens. I hope I accomplished that, but if you have feedback or comments about that please feel free to reach out privately at my tumblr. I will do anything to make this fic more true to life. 
> 
> Until we meet again! (my next fic is already in the works ;))


End file.
